


i've been burned (you brought the flames)

by murphysarc



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Death, F/M, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Murphy-centric, Muteness, The Infamous Hanging Scene, Unhappy Ending, basically murphy has a lot of injuries to his throat, this fic addresses those injuries and murphy loses his voice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 14:25:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11488224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murphysarc/pseuds/murphysarc
Summary: "murphy has always heard that a person's words carried their soul, and their voice was only the vehicle of the words."or, Murphy sustains multiple traumatic injuries to his throat, and tries to live in a world where one's worth is only found through what they have to say.title from "praying" by kesha.





	i've been burned (you brought the flames)

**Author's Note:**

> i'm genuinely sorry. this is not a happy fic. in fact, i think it's the darkest thing i've ever written (maybe besides the one where murphy shoots a lot of people). 
> 
> it's unbeta'd, as per usual.

Voice (noun): the sound produced in a person’s larynx and uttered through the mouth, as speech or song.

 

**i.**

The memory of the first time it happens is distinct in his mind. It’s as if, when Murphy tries to float through ocean that roars in the space behind his temple, the memory of that day wraps its hand around his ankle and _pulls_ , dragging him down into depths that no one has ever seen –

that he will never share –

that he _should_ share, because he's too weak to make it on his own, and he knows this -

and though he fights, though he can swim better than the rest of them, air is thrown out of his lungs and he is gone, immersed in a time long ago.

The first time it happens, he is but a child. Fevers still strike him at night, curling their tendrils around his body, but they disperse by morning. They leave only because this is the time another, much different fever takes him.

Murphy’s mother, once an angel in a world of hellfire, shed her wings and traded her halo in for flames of her own. The first time it happens, she enters his room slowly, flames licking the sides of her dirty white dress. Many years later, Murphy will realize that this was her wedding dress.

“You killed your father,” she whispers. Her voice is so quaint, so dainty, so innocent, that it takes a moment for the malice to reach his young ears. Murphy convinces himself this is a fever dream. He’s sure the whole thing must be – soon, his father will return, his mother will rise once again to the heavens, and all will be well.

He’s picturing this moment when his mother’s hands reach down and wrap around his throat. At first, she applies no pressure. Her fingers dance across the surface of his skin. Murphy recognizes her presence, finding the strength to open his eyes, but he does not feel fear.

He does not feel fear until the tendril fingers begin to squeeze. Pain radiates from his throat, from his neck. A short “no-!” is all he manages before no more air reaches his lungs. Still, he heaves, chest tightening and falling flat as nothing comes to fill it.

“You killed your father,” his mother repeats. Her face is contorted, full of rage. Most of all, though, her gaze holds pain. “You _took_ him from me!”

This is all Murphy hears before the world cuts him out. In one final attempt, he raises a hand and places it on her arm, but he is not strong enough to push her away. His voice is not working. His throat cannot breathe. Otherwise, he’d try to explain himself, he’d tell her that his father is not dead and that he’s coming back very shortly and _please let go of me_ –

She does let go of him, but not because of anything that he does. The hands jerk backwards and hover in the air. Someone’s knocked on the door. The guilt and fear of being caught outweighed the guilt and fear of murdering her only child.

This is something Murphy does not realize for a long, long time.

His mother backs away slowly, hands dropping to her side. Harsh coughs rack Murphy’s frail body as air enters his lungs, forcing its way through his damaged throat. Breathing is painful, opening his eyes is painful, moving is painful. The world is full of pain, some that he has not met yet. For a moment, he curls in on himself and tries to escape from it all –

It never quite works.

It is this memory that he returns to. If someone were to ask him to name the event that defined him, it would probably be this, though he’d never admit it.

Murphy’s always heard that a person’s words carried their soul, and the voice was only the vehicle of the words. This memory, this crevice of his flooded mind that he keeps returning to, marks the first time someone rejected his being. This marks the first time that Murphy’s voice, Murphy’s words, meant nothing to someone who meant everything to him.

It will not be the last.

 

**ii.**

As the room in front of him burns, he begins to believe his mother will rise from the flames.

Because that’s who she ~~is~~ was, right? Murphy’s mother was the kind of woman to take pain and incorporate it into part of herself. With every tragedy, so shrank her humanity. It’s only slightly ironic to him that as he watches a real, raging fire for the first time in his life she is not here to grow from it.

He’s sure his mother is burning in hell, anyways, even though he can’t bring himself to think about it.

Someone rounds a corner and sees Murphy. They give a shout of alarm before turning on their heels and running the other way, no doubt alerting the guards. He gives himself one, maybe two more minutes before everything he knows is gone.

It’s three minutes before the guards come racing around the corner. The two in front hold guns aimed directly at Murphy’s throat. As he watches the barrels come closer and closer, he feels strong, tendril fingers reach up and begin to squeeze his throat shut, trapping his voice, trapping his words, and he can’t find the strength to _fight_ it anymore –

Perhaps the guards can read his mind, because one races right up to him and slams him against the wall, wrapping one hand around his throat while keeping the other next to Murphy’s head.

“What the hell are you doing?” the guard roars. He’s not trying to crush Murphy’s throat, by any means, but still Murphy feels it. If he would just let go, if air could meet his voice halfway, if he could _explain_ himself then maybe –

But no. The hand remains, a constant threat. Murphy doesn’t know why he can’t breathe. His throat is open, undamaged, fine, and yet – it’s not.

Without the ability to say a word, the guards have no choice. They take him away.

 

**iii.**

“You can’t do this to me. You can’t – Bellamy – Bellamy, _listen_ to me, I didn’t do it, I didn’t do anything, _please_!”

This time, Murphy’s voice is full. It carries over the entire group. It falls on each ear, delivering meaning, delivering intent. It is honest, it is true. Murphy has never told a lie – at least, never to Bellamy.

There’s something about that that he doesn’t understand, that he can’t explain to himself. Bellamy is the only soul Murphy’s ever met who _listens_ to him, who respects him. If Murphy uses his voice, Bellamy always listens with full attention. His trust, a scarce commodity, lies completely in Murphy.

It’s through this relationship that Murphy begins to believe that his voice _does_ hold meaning. Maybe, just maybe, he has something worth saying.

But now, Bellamy stares at him with cold fire in his eyes, and there are no words that can heal that kind of betrayal.

“I didn’t kill Wells!” he repeats, but he’s losing himself in Bellamy’s tortured glare. There are so many emotions in his eyes, but they only convey one meaning. _I trusted you_ , his gaze says, loud and clear. _I trusted you, and you abused it, you monster._

Bellamy doesn’t need to use his voice to make his words heard. Murphy does not have this kind of luxury.

“You can’t do this–”

He does it anyways.

The box is kicked out from under his feet. He falls downwards but the rope catches him by his throat, the crowd begins to cheer, and Murphy begins to die. It is in this way that an innocent ~~man~~ boy is hanged for murder.

His voice stops working altogether as his hands scramble, pushing on the rope that only pushes harder. The small opening in this throat, allowing the air to carry his voice into the world, feels as though it’s closed completely. There are no more words.

It is so painful, so traumatic, that he does not realize he’s been cut down for many, many minutes. His eyes do not open. He does not try to hear anything around him. Instead, he curls in on himself, desperately gasping for air. It is a last desperate attempt to purge the newest fever that holds his voice in its smoky tendrils.

Bellamy approaches him some time later. The apology offered is short, possibly sincere, but more likely a mere formality. A formality, Murphy decides, that he did not need to bother with.

A hand is extended to help him up. Murphy does not take it.

He says nothing in response, either. It is clear his voice does not have much effect.

 

**iv.**

The hanging attempt leaves a noticeable scar on Murphy’s neck. He is quick to learn that the preferred torture method of Grounders is to exploit said scars.

They hold knives to his throat, pressing only hard enough to further silence him. Multiple hands reach around his neck, pushing, crushing, furthering the damage started so long ago.

Though it is only three days, what follows is a lifetime of tormenting debate. Do his words really mean nothing (yes) and, if so, is there even a point to using them?

 

**v.**

As his own hands press down on Connor’s throat, Murphy realizes he fears himself.

It’s not _wrong_ what he’s doing. An eye for an eye, after all. Connor and the already dead Myles were the ones to string him up, to tie the noose around his neck, to reach inside him and rip out what little voice he had left. It is not _wrong_ to wish the same torment on them, to want to take their voices and hey, maybe he can use their words instead of his own because clearly, they mean more in this world –

As Connor’s last breath leaves him, Murphy feels nothing.

He does not feel better. If anything, his voice runs further away, drowning itself in some lost part of himself, some part that he may never see again, let alone reach out of his own free will. He does not feel any sense of justice.

But, then again, he does not feel _bad_ about what he’s done. An eye for an eye. That’s what it’s got to be.

That’s how people have always treated Murphy, anyways, and inside he’s much too small to keep being the bigger person about it all.

 

**vi.**

It’s a constant struggle. It’s a battle that he’ll never win. It’s a war he doesn’t remember fighting.

Every time Murphy speaks, every time his voice crosses the threshold of his throat and rise into the air, it hurts. A multitude of scars lined over top of each other amplified the physical pain, yes, but the emotional agony was tenfold worse.

Each person who sees Murphy looks at this throat before anything else. There are never any comments made. Sometimes, if he feels like lying to himself, he thinks he sees a glimmer of sympathy in their eyes. Don’t get him wrong, he knows _exactly_ why they look – he, too, would stare at an ugly, red scar, filled with jagged lines and skin that didn’t heal quite right.

The fact is, it hurts to speak. His words come with the price of his own sanity, and while he’s willing to pay, maybe it’s that others are not willing to receive.

 

**vii.**

Ontari snaps the chain around his neck in one quick, fluid motion. It is then Murphy knows everything he’s tried to build up has just come crashing down.

“There,” she says. “That will keep you contained.”

Murphy opens his mouth to give a quick retort, as he generally did, but the chain hit against his throat, awakening his scar. No sound came out.

“That will _ensure_ that you cannot run away,” Ontari whispers, running a hand along Murphy’s shoulder and then to the back of his neck. Terror, an all too familiar feeling, crept up his body.

For a moment, he attempts to escape. He stretches his mind to a place elsewhere, somewhere that she can’t reach him, but then –

The memory of the first time that _it_ happened attacks his mind and no, that is not a good place to find refuge.

Instead, he thinks of Bellamy.

It’s stupid. He knows this. But Bellamy remains the one person Murphy has any decent amount of respect for. Yes, he was the one to kick the box from under his feet, but Murphy did the same to him. They’re even. Aren’t they?

They’re even, but Bellamy still stares at him with anger and distrust in his eyes, sometimes. Still, as Ontari pushes Murphy backwards until his back is on the ground, he closes his eyes and imagines Bellamy, imagines the Bellamy he knows he can be.

It’s calming. It’s a refuge. For a little while, his airway is clear. It is easy to breathe. The abundance of breath softly raises his words, helping them to reach out and touch the world around them –

“Look at me,” Ontari hisses. His eyes open. The moment is gone.

As Murphy stares into Ontari’s cold, calculating eyes, he cannot allow himself to picture Bellamy any further. He will not allow his one good memory to be tarnished with _her_.

But there are no other good memories for him to lose himself in. Instead, he remains in the present. The chain grows tighter and tighter until it is its own kind of noose.

Murphy says nothing, but a single tear falls down his cheek.

 

**viii.**

Murphy’s not quite sure what’s happening, but Ontari’s behaviours suddenly changes. She becomes robotic, mechanical, more so than before. He doesn’t know why. He’s been locked in a dungeon for days, weeks, months, maybe years.

The chain has never left his neck, each moment it moves forming new lines, decorating the old ones. His throat is a battle ground. He is a casualty.

It’s a long while until the door to the room opens again. The voice that floats in is – no. It can’t be. There is _no way_ that he’s –

“Murphy?”

Bellamy stands at the door, his jaw dropping to the floor. Murphy doesn’t say anything. At this point, he doesn’t think that he can.

The moment of shock is gone. A hardened, neutral expression returns to Bellamy’s features. It’s the one Murphy would expect. Nonetheless, Bellamy approaches and kneels in front of Murphy, inspecting the chain, searching for its weakness. “What happened to you?”

For ~~days weeks~~ months now, Murphy has been unable to form a word. Ontari has hit him, bruised him, assaulted him, but nothing. He doesn’t know why, yet, he knows exactly why. The simple answer? It hurts too much. One man can only bare so much pain.

But then Bellamy stares at him, his eyes soft, and – well, Murphy would do anything for him. There is only one person left on the planet who holds some form of respect for Murphy, and he would do _anything_ for him.

“Captured,” he says. His voice is raspy, sounds like it’s being run over by glass. It hurts more than anything to speak. He’s sure that permanent damage has been done to his throat, maybe even his vocal cords, but he keeps trying. “Ontari. Tortured, long time. Don’t know–”

“It’s okay,” Bellamy says softly, still searching the chain. He’s soft, though. Murphy’s not afraid. “It’s okay. I understand. You’re safe now.”

Murphy swallows roughly and shakes his head. “Ontari–”

“Ontari is dead, Murphy. She’s gone. She’s not coming back.”

His eyes widen, searching Bellamy’s features for any trace of a lie, but he finds none. He nods, unsure of how he feels. A thousand things are starting and a thousand are ending. He just doesn’t know anymore.

Bellamy stands and begins searching Ontari’s room for her keys to unlock the chains. Several minutes of silence pass before Murphy fights through the pain to ask, “Emori?”

It’s a long shot. The last time he saw her was right before he was captured, before Titus tortured him, before he sold him off to Ontari and there he remained. He hopes Jaha didn’t catch up with her, because otherwise –

“Emori? The girl with the strange hand, right?”

“It’s not–” His voice gives out. He can’t finish the sentence, but for Bellamy, he wants to try. He wants to look stronger than he ever can be.

“No, it isn’t strange, you’re right. But she’s alright. Once Clarke killed ALIE, she helped us get down the building. I think she’s tending to the wounded.”

Murphy nods. There’s one more question he wants to ask, but his voice is still gone. He’s not sure it’s ever coming back.

Bellamy stops searching and holds up a small, golden key. “I hope this is it,” he says, approaching Murphy, still softly. The key fits the lock and the chain opens, falling off Murphy’s neck onto a heap on the floor. The immediate gasp of air he’s almost able to make is proof that it was far too tight.

Bellamy’s eyes immediately move to Murphy’s throat, darkening as he’s able to see the damage. There are no mirrors in this room, so Murphy cannot know for certain, but he knows enough that he doesn’t try to look.

“Let’s get out of here,” Bellamy says, offering a hand.

This time, Murphy takes it.

 

**ix.**

He doesn’t speak to anyone but Bellamy, after that, which works, because Bellamy rarely speaks to him.

Murphy reasons that it’s not because Bellamy _hates_ him or anything – he could have left Murphy to rot in Ontari’s room – but it’s just that Bellamy has more important things to worry about. This is okay. Murphy is content.

He’s finally figured out his purpose in life. It’s to shut the hell up and stand in the corner by himself. Once he starts doing this, his throat becomes a mild ache that he can manage. Others, even those he would like to call friend, stop bothering him. He’s sure Raven is especially happy.

Still, he goes places. He figures that even though he’s not meant to use his words, he must be fated for something else. That’s only fair. If he’s buying into this whole ‘purpose’ and ‘fate’ crap, then he _must_ have a fair fate. He has to.

It doesn’t help that every time Bellamy passes him, or looks at him, or gives him a nod, his voice creeps back into his throat, an old enemy Murphy can’t quite kill.

There is so much he wants to say, but there are so many people determined to keep him from saying it.

Emori stays with him. He doesn’t need to talk for her to understand. It’s nice.

Not much time has passed until he finds himself in Becca’s laboratory, assisting Raven in meager ways so she can save the world, yet again. It’s a blessing that Emori is here, otherwise he wouldn’t know what to do with himself.

Time passes. Raven almost dies. Time passes. Abby’s getting close. Time passes. Raven almost dies again. Time passes.

Abby says she’s got a cure, but there’s no way to know for sure. The universe must be sending him a big ‘screw you’ because Clarke, Roan and Bellamy choose that moment to show up.

“So you’re saying we need a test subject,” Bellamy says.

Abby pauses. “I’m saying…that I don’t know if this works or not.”

“But it might,” Clarke says. The hopeful glint in her voice makes Murphy roll his eyes. Somewhere, deep inside himself, he respects Clarke for all that she’s done, but…the superficial part of himself can’t.

“Are we willing to take the chance it doesn’t?” Raven asks, sighing.

Emori tenses beside him. Murphy doesn’t take any notice of it. He should have.

“Someone has to test it,” Abby decides. “Someone here. Now.”

“We can’t do that to someone,” Bellamy says immediately, and Murphy nods his support, but nobody is paying attention.

“Alright, then. We’ll take a vote,” Clarke says, after a long period of silence. “I vote…yes.”

Miller, Roan, and Abby join her. Emori, Raven, Jackson, and Bellamy vote no. It becomes a tie. Luna is still unconscious on one of the tables, exhausted after the last marrow transplant.

“Murphy?” Clarke asks, startling him slightly. During this entire trip, no one has asked his opinion or even said hello, besides Emori. His voice has not been used since Bellamy took him to that place, and it is hiding, unwilling to venture past the treacherous journey that is his bruised, battered throat –

He opens his mouth, attempts to make a sound, but he cannot. His eyes fall to the floor in shame.

“Murphy?” That’s Raven this time. She seems puzzled. “What on earth is up with you?” She’s going to venture forwards, towards him, but Murphy can see Bellamy place a hand on her shoulder to stop her. For that, he’s eternally grateful. He doesn’t know how to explain himself.

The fact is, he’s not quite sure if he is physically unable to speak anymore, or if he’s only convinced himself he can’t.

“I know John votes no,” Emori says, stepping forwards. She doesn’t carry much weight with the group. It’s brave of her to speak up.

Clarke shakes her head. “If we don’t test it, how will we know if it works? How will we know if we live?”

Silence falls, and then a long sigh. “You’re right,” Jackson whispers. “Alright, I…I change my vote.”

Clarke nods, pleased, thankful that she’s able to sway the vote yet again. Emori, however, stiffens completely. “No,” she says. “I won’t let you do this. I won’t…you can’t.”

She steps forwards, surveying their shocked faces. Murphy steps with her, in confusion, in fear of being left behind. There are exactly four beats of silence before Emori bolts to the other end of the lab, grabbing a large rod and raising her arms to strike the machine. Murphy rushes forwards to help, but a gun is placed to his temple, and he stops, fearing for his neck once more.

He’s too slow, either way. Roan grabs the rod out of Emori’s hands and holds her tightly, restraining her. Abby pushes a needle into her neck, and she falls limp.

Murphy starts shaking his head. The words still don’t come – he’s _trying_ – but he has to do _something_. “Murphy, don’t,” Miller says quietly, sliding the safety off the gun.

It’s scary that Murphy isn’t sure if Miller will shoot him or not.

He doesn’t have to think about it. Miller grabs Murphy’s wrist and drags him back to a fixture on the wall, holding him there, allowing Roan to come over and bind him in place. “Don’t try to fight it,” Miller advises, lowering the gun once he’s sure Murphy can’t escape the bindings. “She’s brought this on herself.”

“She’ll survive,” Clarke says, but she doesn’t sound sure.

It’s happening too quickly. Murphy can’t stop it. His words are long since lost but he tries to rip his hands out of the bindings, he tries to tear them off with his teeth, he tries to break his thumbs to slip out. None of it works.

Roan walks back to the center of the laboratory, lifting Emori onto the radiation chamber and allowing Abby to inject her with – with _whatever_ Abby’s created and seal the chamber shut. Murphy’s breaths come short and fast as he struggles, harder than he ever has before.

“This isn’t right,” Raven says, surprising Murphy, but he doesn’t stop his efforts to escape. “Emori’s innocent. She’s done nothing wrong!”

“Raven’s right,” Bellamy agrees, stepping forwards to stop Abby from manipulating the controls. “This is _not_ how we do things. This is _not_ who we are.”

Murphy’s grateful for their efforts, he is, but all it earns is Miller threatening each of them with his gun. He’s sure Bellamy begins to stare at Murphy in desperation, hoping to come up with a plan, but Murphy understands better than anyone that Bellamy would not dare harm anyone in this room.

Abby turns on the chamber. Murphy fights harder.

The radiation levels increase, slowly rising, Abby calling out meaningless numbers that Murphy can only interpret as _bad news_.

Try as he might, the bindings hold. His breathing increases. His ears ring, his vision grows fuzzy, panic bubbles in his chest. His mouth opens and closes, desperate to convey the protests in his mind, but none come.

Inside the chamber, Emori opens her eyes, and she begins to scream. It is then Murphy knows it is too late. It’s always been too late.

Blisters form on her skin and she screams, blood trickling from her mouth, fists weakly pounded on the ceiling of the chamber. Abby steps back, horror plastered on her face. Clarke is much the same.

Emori’s screams falter. Her eyes roll back and close. Her arm falls beside her with a _thump_.

Murphy shuts his eyes. Something forms inside his chest, something monstrous, something he’s been harbouring for years without a way to expel. It’s horrible, it’s dangerous, it’s everything that he will ever be and become –

Murphy shuts his eyes, but the image of Emori lying in the chamber is burned on his retinas –

The chain is back around his neck, and he is tied down, down, down –

He screams.

It starts low, a small growl that escapes him, racing over the jagged glass in his throat. It’s the most painful thing he’s ever done but adrenaline and rage force the pain aside, and the scream builds, growing louder and louder, drowning out the rest of the room –

His eyes shut tighter but _she_ still _suffers_ in his mind –

Emori, the only one he still has –

Dead –

Gone –

Murdered –

He roars with everything he has, letting go, letting everything but the trauma leave him, because his trauma will never leave him, it is a part of his shadow that trails after him even in the night –

The darkness becomes too much. He snaps his eyes open and begins to feel again, feels someone, no, two people holding on to him with everything they have, holding him so tightly that he doesn’t feel quite as trapped.

Though the scream dies down, it turns into wretched sobs that shake his entire body. He’s not proud, so he lets the tears fall freely. Instead of glass his throat is like hell itself but he cannot stop, it’s _too much_ , it’s always been too much but he’s just now realizing it.

“Murphy!” It’s Bellamy, right in front of him, one of the two holding him like he’s never been held. “Murphy, please. You’re hurting yourself.”

Someone else, the other person behind him, slips their hand into his. It’s Raven. He doesn’t understand why, but it’s – _Raven._ “Murphy,” she whispers. “ _John._ ”

The name hits him so hard his eyes fly open, tears flowing but voice silencing. “It’s okay,” she continues. “You’re okay.” Only now does Murphy realize he’s no longer restrained.

The adrenaline begins to fade. He has to say something, has to explain himself.

“I–”

The pain of forming one simple word is more than anything he’s ever felt combined. Instantly, he lets out a surprised gasp, falling backwards into Raven’s chest as he loses grip on the world around him.

“Don’t try to speak,” Bellamy says.

“You’re alright,” Raven continues to say. “You’re alright, it’s alright, it’ll all be alright one day…”

 

**x.**

The final time it happens, it is in the bunker, and Murphy all but breaks.

He’s supposed to be guarding Bellamy from escaping. He’s not quite sure how this happens, how they’ve come to this point, where Clarke trusts Murphy more than Bellamy. It’s a little silly, that she expects the mute to guard the prisoner, but he doesn’t protest.

Murphy’s not doing it for her, he’s doing it so Bellamy doesn’t get hurt, but she doesn’t need to know that.

It’s all quiet until Abby starts yelling. “Murphy!” she cries. “I need you!”

He runs in without pause. Anything Bellamy needs, he will do. After all, it is Bellamy who helped him that day. It is Bellamy who stayed with him for hours, gently reassuring him while running fingers through his hair.

Raven, he knows, is dead. Maybe she managed to launch her rocket and do one final spacewalk, maybe her brain bled out before the suit finished. It doesn’t matter. He’s never going to see her again. Emori is – well. No matter which way you look at it, Bellamy is all Murphy has left.

It is for this reason that Murphy rushes into Bellamy’s cell unprepared, desperate to help, to keep the final person who cares about him in his life.

He doesn’t expect Bellamy to rush out of the shadows and grab his neck.

As soon as his fingers connect with the delicate scars, Murphy lets out an involuntary cry of shock and pain, the first sound he’s made in weeks. Bellamy lets go, a look of horror and regret crossing his face. “Oh, god, Murphy,” he says. “I didn’t mean to – I didn’t! I’m so sorry, are you alright? Is your throat alright?”

He’s not alright. Murphy backs away like a wounded animal until he reaches the door, where he turns around and runs, far, far away. Bellamy yells after him once, but he does not try to follow.

It doesn’t take long for Murphy’s words to leave him completely. They fall, down, somewhere deeper in a crevice of a crevice of himself, somewhere he’s never seen.

Murphy makes the choice to never go searching for them. It is better off if nobody hears his voice, hears his words, hears his being – they mean nothing, anyways, not even to himself.

There is no purpose to speaking it is proven, time and time again, that he shouldn’t.

After all, it’s not as if he ever had a fate, anyways.

The memory of the final time it happens is distinct in his mind, because that is the memory that grabs his ankle and pulls him down, into the ocean of his mind, below the surface, below anyone’s reach.

He does not try to escape. There is nobody to help him.

Murphy’s always been too weak to make it on his own, anyways.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm not happy with the ending. hope you enjoyed nonetheless.
> 
> let me know how you liked it! drop me a comment, let me know if i should write more like this or not. it's an experiment.
> 
> thanks and have a wonderful day <3


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